


Of Borovan and Brooding

by seashadows



Category: Neopets, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:49:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seashadows/pseuds/seashadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bones drinks borovan, nobody leaves him alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Borovan and Brooding

**Author's Note:**

> This is just for fun - I in no way think that owning a bunch of pixels is wrong.

  
Jim reached across the table and gave his friend his best glare. “C’mon, Bones, give it over. You know how jumpy you get with that stuff.”  
  
“No way.” McCoy raised an eyebrow, hardly noticeable in the thick brown fur that covered his face, and tightened his grip on his mug of borovan. “I paid for this stuff and I’m fixin’ to drink it. Get your own.”  
  
“I don’t _want_ it.” The Gelert made a face, sticking his paw in his mouth as if to gag himself with it. “Mint in your borovan. As if I’d drink something like that.” He crossed his arms. “Technically speaking, Chris paid for it.”  
  
“Damn it, you have to remind me?” McCoy’s paw slammed down on the table. “I got _six years_ as a free Neopian ‘fore those _morons_ got here, and now I gotta make out like some furless one’s my owner. Like I’m a Goldy or somethin’.” Jim could always tell when the Lupe was about to go on a rant: he started repeating things for the millionth time, and his green eyes turned so sad that it hurt to look into them. Check, and check. “Dammit –“  
  
“Bones! Shut _up!_ ” Jim slapped a paw against McCoy’s mouth. “You want to get Pounded? They can do that if they hear you using those words.” Blue eyes stared into green, one pair as worried as the other was defiant. “I don’t _care_ if we have our own walls around us,” he continued, precluding McCoy’s protests.  
  
McCoy rolled his eyes and nodded. Jim cautiously took his hand off his mouth, but his friend spoke in a softer tone this time. “Right, right, the hobgoblin. He’d tell, for sure.”  
  
“ _Peophin_ , Bones,” Jim reproached. “Not _hobgoblin_. Spock’s one of us, remember?”  
  
“Ain’t one of us if his daddy’s a Darigan drone.” McCoy curled his lip upward, baring his teeth in a feral sneer. Even after years in Neopia Central, his southern Haunted Woods accent still came out when he was agitated. “Far as I’m concerned, y’look like ‘em, y’ain’t a Neopian like the rest of us, and Spock looks like ‘em.” He shook his head. “That damn purple-blooded computer quotes _rules_ at me one more time and I may throw up on you.”  
  
“Look.” Jim spread his paws out on the table in a conciliatory signal. “I don’t like the language rules any more than you do, but some of the owners are really young. There are rules about them hearing those words where _they_ come from, too. You know that.” He wore the tired expression of a Neopian bored with explanations; understandable, considering the circumstances.  
  
“Language rules,” McCoy snorted, resting his chin on one palm. “’Cause of some kids half my age, pretendin’ to _own_ us. Y’know what they did to Tyrannian, Jim?”  
  
Jim sighed and pretended to take the bait. “What’d they do, Bones?”  
  
“Took one of the oldest languages in Neopia and turned it into a _joke_ , that’s what they did!” McCoy took another gulp of his borovan. “Just ‘cause they can’t understand it… _argh!_ ” He pounded the table; he’d done it so often over the past five years with Christopher Pike that a dent had formed. Leonard H. McCoy, N.M.D., was nothing if not a creature of habit. “Dunno ‘bout you, but I ain’t never heard a Tyrannian go ‘ugga ugga.’ Not even that curly-eared kid, and he’s got the thickest accent I ever heard.”  
  
“Hey, hey, leave Chekov alone. He’ll grow into his larynx eventually,” Jim said.  
  
“He won’t grow into anythin’. Kid’s all paws and tail,” McCoy grumbled into his cup. “You’d defend a fellow Gelert if he’d robbed the National Neopian, Jim.”  
  
Jim grinned. “Can’t argue with you there. But if you ignore the accent, Chekov’s probably the smartest guy ever. He’s already in university sciences and he’s only seventeen.”  
  
“Really? They moved him up?” For a moment, McCoy’s expression changed from cantankerous to curious. “Eh, it ain’t like he’ll ever be allowed to be a _real_ scientist. Not with his ancestry.” He slumped in his chair, eyes cast down at the floor. “Damn reality switches.”  
  
Jim patted his paw. “I know, Bones. I know.” But his eyes were sad, too.  
  
He knew all too well how the anomaly had changed all their lives; twenty-five years ago, his father had been monitoring frequencies on North Kreludor Station when a strange creature had appeared in front of him, speaking with an accent George Kirk had never heard before. He wore a white coat and glasses, his head shaved bald, and demanded to know where he was. _Don’t you know who I am?_ he’d snarled. _No one keeps information from Nero Nerrod!_  
  
George had flipped a switch, throwing a protective shield into place while he sent the station’s inhabitants back to Neopia in emergency pods. But whatever Nero already knew had been too strong for the shield. The Kreludor explosion had carved a crater into the moon and deprived Jim, born on one of those shuttles, of his father.  
  
Pictures of George, identical to his son, were still hidden under Jim’s pillow. But the humans constantly coming through the anomaly still held Neopians under their control. Stripped from their parents, they were assigned to owners in groups of four. Here, at 391154 Market Square, four pets couldn’t have been less alike: the electric Gelert, the Lupe from the Haunted Woods, the Darigan Peophin, and the shadow Xweetok.  
  
Jim sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m sorry, Bones. I wish…I wish my dad could’ve done something.” There was nothing he could say, he knew, to truly make McCoy accept being made into someone’s _pet_ ( _Neopet_ for _Neopian_ , even the word sounded wrong), but he couldn’t just sit around and let his friend be miserable.  
  
“I’ll get you another borovan,” he finally said, standing up and pushing his chair in.  
  
“Don’t bother,” Uhura’s voice came from the doorway. “We’re out.”  
  
“Oh, hey,” Jim grinned at her. “What took you, _Nyota?_ ”  
  
The Xweetok rolled her eyes. “Bouncing Hasees. What do you _think?_ ” she said. “I got another transmission from Chris. He won’t be here tonight.”  
  
“Oh yeah?” McCoy said from across the kitchen. “Why not?”  
  
“Another owner fiasco,” Uhura replied, and crossed over to sit down next to him. “Scotty thought Archer’s beagle was a Puppyblew, and sent it to the Petpet Lab Ray.”  
  
“Oh, _shit_ ,” Jim groaned, not even trying to hide the curse. Owners got notoriously pissy when you messed with what they called ‘real-world things.’ Montgomery Scott, a cloud Bruce known for his absentmindedness, had obviously missed the memo. “Better not tell Spock or he’ll call the Pound for sure.”  
  
“Spock wouldn’t do that to Scotty,” Uhura said, frowning at him. “He’s a friend.”  
  
“Since when does Spock have friends?” McCoy retorted.  
  
“Since never,” Jim said from the refrigerator. He turned his head to reveal that he’d stuffed his mouth full of chocolate. “He’sh a schientischt.”  
  
“Swallow, Jim.”  
  
“That’s what…”  
  
“None of that,” Uhura broke in, “or I’ll slap you upside the head.”  
  
Jim shrugged and stuck his head back into the fridge. If he couldn’t be free, well, at least he could be full.


End file.
